


Ghost

by Khaelis



Series: The Doctor and The Rose [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Canon Related, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, One Shot, Short & Sweet, but not canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:35:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22271146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaelis/pseuds/Khaelis
Summary: If the light tries to tell you something, listen.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Series: The Doctor and The Rose [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603117
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again - twice in two days, my lunchtimes are quite productive these days!
> 
> Another fluffy piece that I wanted to be super angsty at first but I'm too tired and stressed to add angst to my burden.  
> Also, I've made a series of sorts - it's just going to be TenxRose one shots, so they're all gathered somewhere easy to find.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you will enjoy this one! :-)

* * *

She remembers the first time it happened. Of course, she can’t be sure, but there’s that part of her that wants to believe. 

The first time. Just a day after the worst day of her life. The day after the worst hadn’t been any better. Perhaps worse. The worst day of her life had been the worst because of the emotions. Loss, pain, heartbreak. Emotions that meant she was still alive. Barely, but still alive. The day after was worse, because the emotions were gone. Only remained the tears that streamed down her cheeks until she had no more left to cry. No emotions. Body alive, but the rest dead. 

The first time it happened was on that day. Alone in a shabby hotel room, a single uncomfortable bed, a tiny window that opened on a back street. There, sat on the bed, by the window, backstreet as dark as the starless night sky. It happened for the first time. 

The lamp flickered on and off. Remained lit for less than half a second, enough to shine on her wet cheeks. It happened once. 

She wants to believe this was the first time it happened, out of all the times it happened again.

It had taken a few weeks before she could drag herself back on her feet. But she had. And during those few weeks, it happened, over, and over, and over again. Everyday, he came to make sure she would keep holding on. To him. 

An old radio that would switch stations for no reason. A phone that would ring once, unknown number, no message. An alarm clock that would blare without any alarm set. And the lights. Always the lights. It must have been easier for him to play with the lights. On, and off, once, twice, dim, bright. Something always happened with the lights. It was him.

He was like a ghost. Invisible, untouchable, but perceptible. A friendly ghost, a comforting presence, a reassuring proximity. He was there. Always. Everyday. He guided her. 

When the alarm clock blared in the morning,  _ she said hello _ . When the phone rang, she said  _ I’ll ring you back later _ . When the radio station changed, she said  _ I hate that song, too _ . She answered the lights, too.  _ Goodnight _ .  _ Thanks _ .  _ Shut up _ .  _ I love you _ . Those were all the ridiculous interactions with lamps and bulbs that kept her hope alive. It was him. He guided her. She kept holding on to him.

It it weren’t for circuits frying and computers bugging for no other apparent reason than bad luck, she might have never made it back. But he guided her, and after a few hundreds of fried circuits and as many bugged computers, she made it.

She wants to believe. She wants to believe it so much her eyes keep darting to the streetlamps, her hand keep checking her phone. There is no sign. No sign of his ghost, no sign of him. She might have landed too far away, in yet another dimension, another universe where he’s not. Too far away to communicate with her. And if his ghost can’t find her, she can’t find him either. 

It does look like the Earth she was forced to leave too long ago. Same streets deserted at this time of the night, asphalt sparkling with fresh rain, cars neatly park along the pavement, dogs barking in the distance and televisions turning on behind every window.

Televisions.

_ Turning on. _

The wet squish of her rubber shoes on the road comes to a halt. She takes a deep breath and keeps it in. She looks. From each window on that street seep out the same lights at the same time, the same programme probably playing on each television. She can hear people complain loudly in their living-rooms.

The sound grows louder, and louder, but soon the voices are drowned by the shrilling ringtones of phones echoing throughout the street, even louder, a cacophony of songs and tunes and beeps falling into her ears. All she hears is the sweetest symphony she’s ever heard. 

He breath comes out, quick and hard, when she sees him. Not a ghost. Him. There, at the end of the street. It’s dark, but there’s no mistaking the soft blue light and the dirty white of the shoes. The cannon drops down on the floor, and when she starts walking the streetlamps accompany each of her steps. On, and off, dim, bright. 

He starts walking towards her, too, but he doesn’t see her. He seems transfixed by what he’s holding in the crook of his hand, pointing his sonic at it, probably cursing at it, but he keeps walking. She does too. The street isn’t long, they’re getting close. Closer. And closer.

They meet halfway. She just has enough time to put a hand over his and splay the other against his chest before they collide. Not a ghost. His skin is soft, warm under her fingers. His body, solid, moving under her palm. Not a ghost. It’s  _ him _ .

For a second, just a second, it feels like the windows are all going to burst because of the shrill, sharp, earsplitting noise the alarm clocks, radios, phones and televisions make. 

For a second, just a second, the streep lamps shine their brightest light all over his face. The brown eyes full of tears but an empty expression, as if his brain can’t quite catch up with the emotions in his hearts. His mouth, half-parted in surprise, or shock, or both. Same sideburns, same slanted nose, same crinkles, same pouty lip. It’s  _ him _ .

Every bulb on the street explodes at once and every source of light dies. 

And they’re alive again. 

Under the last sparks that vanish in the dark, their bodies find each other again. Their lips meet again. And when she answers  _ I love you, too _ , she knows she’s not talking to his ghost any longer. 

* * *


End file.
